


On the Bias

by jamjoon



Series: YugBam Designer Au [2]
Category: GOT7
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-30 19:16:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15103211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamjoon/pseuds/jamjoon
Summary: Sequel toCut and SewWhen he sees Yugyeom in the hotel lobby, its like weeks and weeks of built-up wax just melts, heavy off his shoulders, pooling onto the floor and up to his ankles.





	On the Bias

**Author's Note:**

> ngl, i missed this au

 

The Big Apple, City of Dreams _–_

Loud and Fucking Cold. That’s what they should call it.

It takes an hour to drive four blocks and six to get anywhere by foot. You can always assume you’re less than three feet away from a rat at all times, and there’s only  _so_ many times you can almost die crossing a street, surely. There’s talk of moving America’s fashion capitol to LA, and Bambam would not complain one bit.

Yeah, okay, being invited to NYFW is kind of the biggest honor an up-and-coming can have, but, that’s not to say it’s a little overrated. Whatever, Bambam signed most of his label over to some company that knows what they’re doing, so. He’s here.

It’s not about the money. It’s never reallybeen about the money _._

He’s been working in a rented warehouse the past month, last minute prepping, the whole biz. You’d think the stress wouldn’t be so bad now that there’s a team of slippery interns bustling to have a napkin ready when he spits out his gum; but the stress never really goes away. Not really.

He’s excited, yes. Except the hotel room is lonely, and he misses his magnum opus; his real, true inspiration. Bambam is counting the days.

But the work is busy, and the work is  _good,_ so Bambam walks out of MOOD with another bag of mismatched buttons, and a doubleroll of patternpaper under his arm.

 _“I’ll do it!”_ An intern had said, but – if we’re being totally honest, if Bambam had to sit in that little shoebox room any longer, the nearby window was going to look  _real_ tempting.

A breeze blows; cold, biting air that rips right through your clothes, and Bambam regrets not wearing a thicker jacket.

It’s probably sacrilege to walk around in an embroidered Dolce & Gabanna coat, but come on _._ It was like, the first thing he bought after selling stock, and he technically  _was_ at their show in September. There’s worse than Italian jackets in New York.

 

* * *

 

 

When he sees Yugyeom in the hotel lobby, its like weeks and weeks of built-up wax just  _melts,_ heavy off his shoulders, pooling onto the floor and up to his ankles.

“Bambam!”

His feet freeze to the tile, body caught between the urge to sprint into his arms, or buckle to the floor; but Yugyeom makes the decision for him, dropping his bags and scooping Bambam up and spinning him once. Gracefully, mind you.

“Oh my gosh,” Bambam croaks, “I missed you.”

“That was the longest flight of my life, I can’t feel my ass anymore,” Yugyeom sighs.

“It’s been the longest  _month_ of my life.” Bambam squeezes Yugyeom’s arm when he pulls away, “Jesus, you bulked up.”

“Well it’s not every day you get to walk a New York runway.”

“Overrated,” Bambam says. “Come on, I’ll show you our room.”

 

* * *

 

He’s so, stunningly beautiful. T-shirt and jeans, parka slipping off his shoulders, that kind of innocent, bewildered look on his face as he looks around the hotel room. It’s like seeing him for the first time.

“Wow,” Yugyeom breathes, almost a whisper. He’s drawn to the window, fingers pressing up against the glass, “You’ve woken up to this every day.” The light silhouettes him, his hair a deep maroon color, glowing yellow from the sun.

“Boring without you,” Bambam says flippantly, and bites down when Yugyeom turns around to give him  _that_ look – the one that’s open and touched.

“Oh Bammie, I missed you so much.” Yugyeom pulls Bambam closer, leaning back up against that wall-length window.  _“So_ much.”

“Hope you didn’t cry yourself to sleep too often, babe,” Bambam grins, and accepts the quick swat on his hip for it.

“I stayed busy,” Yugyeom hums, and  _finally_ kisses him, a billion happy butterflies skittering down Bambam’s spine. It’s  _euphoria,_ water in a fucking desert.

Bambam twists his hands in the front of Yugyeom’s shirt, holds on for dear life and thanks god while he’s at it.

It’s been a couple years now. They have an apartment. And a goldfish. And nothing about their life is normal. And it’s good that way.

Yugyeom makes a soft  _oh_ sound, and draws Bambam’s fingers out of his shirt, and between his own. “Baby, your hands.”

“Shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Yes, but it always makes me so sad.” Yugyeom lifts his hands and yeah- they’re pretty bad right now. Hundreds of needle prickings long his fingertips, a few slices from clippers and blades, and even a wrapped bandage on his ring finger, when he  _actually_ sewed over his hand last week.

“Did you-“

“Yes.”

“Thank goodness it wasn’t the nail,” Yugyeom inspects his fingers further. “You’d be painting your nails black for the rest of your life.”

“It’s bound to happen one day,” Bambam sighs. He has a meeting at noon and a dress rehearsal at four, and he hasn’t eaten yet and the last time he slept was probably two days ago, so in this moment, he lets himself press his forehead into Yugyeom’s chest, and sigh.

Yugyeom’s large hand slides up his back, comforting in a way that he’s only able to be. Sometimes he wishes Yugyeom would just squeeze him hard enough to pop. It’s the best way to go, really.

“I’m so,  _so_ excited to see what you’ve done.”

“The media is going to hate it.”

“Probably will,” Yugyeom grins. “They always hate the original stuff.”

Bambam snorts, and winds his arms tight around Yugyeom’s dainty little waist. “Who’s still coming?”

“Mark, Jackson, Youngjae, and Jinyoung. I still had a ticket left so I invited JB.”

“Oh,” Bambam blinks. “Well that’ll be fun.”

“I hope you get a moment to hang out with us.” Yugyeom nudges his nose against Bambam’s temple, “Mark said something about taking you out to dinner.”

“I’ll try,” he says. “But you have to promise to fuck me against this window when it’s all done.”

Yugyeom laughs, and presses a hot kiss against his ear, “Glad we’re on the same page.”

 

* * *

 

Dress rehearsal is a specific kind of organized chaos. Like hell, but more naked. And surrounded by priceless irreplaceable garments.

Bambam isn’t really looking for Yugyeom – but he  _does_ sneak a peak over, just to see his reaction when he’s given his garment lineup.

“Oh Bambam,” he breathes, fingers ghosting over hand beading, stiff collar jackets and high, four-button sailor shorts. “You’ve really outdone yourself.”

“You’re my chef-d’œuvre,” Bambam smiles, squeezing his shoulder in a subtle way.

 _“I’m_ your finale?” Yugyeom gapes. He pulls on the jacket, the coattails long enough to drag on the floor. Sheer georgette flows like water, and Bambam  _knows_ it’ll fit because he knows Yugyeom’s measurements by heart.

“Bias cut,” Bambam says. “For maximum drape.”

“Good lord, we’re going to go into debt.”

“Not if these sell.”

“I almost don’t want it to,” Yugyeom breathes. He looks enthralled, and it makes Bambam’s heart roll around in his chest.

Bambam starts to say something else, but there’s a very panicked intern yelling “Bhuwakul! Bhuwakul!” So he quickly says  _gotta go!_ and slides over to the model half-stuck in a gabardine jumpsuit.

 

* * *

 

There’s two days until runway. He doesn’t see Yugyeom during the day– and even if he does, it’s only in passing.

And yet, there’s this second wind that hits him. From the short, fleeting time in that hotel room, where the clock passes midnight and they swindle the hotel staff into bringing them room service past kitchen hours – where Yugyeom stares wide eyed at the city, and rambles about the designers he’s met. Pure, unadulterated wonder; complete confidence in Bambam’s abilities.

Yes, Bambam thinks. He can do this. He  _will_ do this.

So he wears his damn Dolce & Gabanna jacket and walks around New York with a refound  _passion._ Because his forty-piece collection is going to walk down Fashion Week, and everyone is going to know his name.

“I don’t know how you’ve done it,” Yugyeom sighs, sprawled over the bed newly showered, and wrapped in a hotel bathrobe. “English is so hard.”

“It’s easier the more you immerse yourself.”

“I tried to buy a sandwich today and ended up with three baskets of chicken strips.”

Bambam starts laughing, and crawls onto the bed, straddling Yugyeom’s back.

“When in doubt, google translate.”

“I wish I had you with me,” Yugyeom sighs, muffled into the pillows. “Why do you have to be so busy and successful?”

“Uh,” Bambam pokes the back of his head, “excuse me, Mr. Model, but I hear you’re quite the popular one. You didn’t tell me you were modeling for Loverboy!”

“Oh yeah!” Yugyeom wiggles and rolls around to face him, and Bambam is mildly annoyed at how good he looks at this angle.  _Nobody_ looks good at this angle. “That was totally a last-minute thing.”

“Ugh, his  _idontgiveafuck_ avant-garde style is to die for. Does he have you in a skirt? If he does, I’m going to have to break out and sneak into the audience.”

“I guess you’ll have to sneak out and see for yourself,” Yugyeom grins, and Bambam huffs, reaching down to squeeze at his nose.

“You suck.”

“I can if you want me to.”

“Oh god.”

 

* * *

 

Bambam narrowly resists the urge to chew through all his nails, but the need is very there. It’d almost be easier to peel off all his skin, stick his feet in a bucket of ice and claw out his eyes.

But no, his friends –  _family –_ are in the audience, and the announcer is saying his name, and holy hell that’s his logo this is  _happening –_

Models walk one after the other. Bambam watches the monitor and hell, there goes his nails. There’s a pat from his intern; she smiles and says in English, “You should be pleased,” but really, Bambam is just trying not to throw up.

It could be better. It could always be better. Oh no, nobody looks impressed. Well, there goes six months of his life, cool, thanks, bankruptcy will be fun.

But there he is; Yugyeom in his first of many outfits, tall and stunning in dress pants, an old Sherlock-style cape around his shoulders, thick as tapestry, but white as snow. He  _glows_ in it, absolutely stealing the energy of the entire room, and for a moment, Bambam can breathe.

Yugyeom’s beauty is never lost on him, and yet Bambam is amazed by it every time. They’re an attractive pair (Bambam is proud of that), but  _here,_ Yugyeom is in his element. Wearing Bambam’s clothes like a prince in front of his army. He’s already finished walking the stage, and Bambam can hear the mad scramble to get models redressed, and he really starts to smile.

A female model walks out in one of his gowns. It’s an old-style hoopskirt with bizarre twelfth century hair, and Bambam feels the pride start to settle in. He still kind of wants to vomit, but he did it. He’s here. He slept an hour last night, but he’s  _here._

It’s over too soon. Yugyeom is walking out in his finale, and he can see the audience gasp on the monitor. He works the coat so naturally, fabric flowing the way Bambam imagined it months ago, when he was scribbling into a notebook at the foot of his bed. It all falls into place, and Bambam wishes he could walk out there and kiss him.

Oh, shit --

“Bambam you’re up!” The intern pats him, and so he jogs numbly, to meet Yugyeom at his side, and walk with him at the end of the lineup, waving to the photographers and taking a final bow. Yugyeom breaks character to beam, standing tall and proud in that long, stiff coat.

 

* * *

 

“I’m in love with you,” Bambam says, shoving Yugyeom’s naked back up against the dressing room wall, “I’m so, so in love with you.”

“Fuck,” Yugyeom breaks the kiss, “You  _did_ it, you really-“

“My clothes, shit-“ Bambam chokes, fingers scrambling at Yugyeom’s hips, trying desperately to get him even closer, “-you always make them look so good, so  _perfect,_ you’re-“

“You’re amazing,” Yugyeom whispers, big hands coming up to brace behind Bambam’s head and hold him there, forcing a kiss deep and sloppy and hot enough to make Bambam’s stomach flip upside down. His mouth is scolding and Bambam can’t get enough of it. Of large hands and smooth chests and narrow hipbones. He has Yugyeom’s body memorized by heart but he  _wants it,_ wants it tattooed on his own. 78” inseam, 19” armlength, 5.4” shoulder notch-

There’s bustling and noise outside the curtain, but hell, Bambam would fuck him right here, let everyone see his knees under the sheet and know.

“Ah, shit-“ Yugyeom sucks on his tongue, breaks apart and breathes him in, like he cant get enough. “They’re meeting us at Morton’s in an hour.”

“Who.”

“Our  _friends._ ”

“Fuck our friends,” Bambam says, “Fuck  _me._ ”

Adrenaline has him shaking, fingers too jerky to stay on any one part of Yugyeom for too long. Yugyeom laughs, and chokes when Bambam starts to undo his pants, “No –  _no!_ We ahh – we can’t.”

Bambam lets out a long, soundless breath, before he pouts and grumbles, “But-“

“Later,” Yugyeom says, fingers tightening in his hair, and Bambam moans from it. “Later, in front of the skyline.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Bambam says, and then rights his hair, and steps back out into the stage.

 

* * *

 

He’s a little late to dinner. There’s a lot of people to thank and greet, a lot of hands to shake, a lot of designers to congratulate. He’s made a few connections since getting here – don’t think he won’t call up on those, but his brain is on overload.

Bambam meets a few investors, most he mentally chucks away, but one woman seems genuinely impressed with his work so Bambam accepts her business card.

Traffic is hell. Bambam sucks it up and walks the few blocks over to the steakhouse. He sees his friends standing around, still dressed from the event; and Yugyeom has changed into a remarkable pastel Tom Ford. It’s pressed to utter perfection, and Bambam’s mouth waters a little. His hands are still shaking from the adrenaline, so that doesn’t help any.

“Heyy!” Jackson throws up his arms as Bambam comes around the corner. “It’s the man of the hour!”

“No photographs, please,” Bambam jokes, and doesn’t protest when Jackson wraps an arm around his shoulders and ruffles his hair.

“You’re going to buy me that Porsche now that you’re famous, right?” Jinyoung clasps his hand, and Bambam bro-hugs him.

“Dude, if anyone’s getting a Porsche after this, it’s me.”

“Mark and JB already got us a table,” Youngjae says, giving him a slap on the back. “Let’s go, its fucking cold.”

The restaurant is warmer; low lights and waiters in white vests. Bambam doesn’t have time to appreciate the interior design, because Yugyeom is wrapping an arm around his waist, and guiding him to a table near the back. A part of him always preens when Yugyeom does that – like  _Bambam_ is the trophy wife. 

Mark hugs him when he sees him; a real brother hug, where he squeezes him tight and doesn’t let go. It takes Bambam a moment to fall into it, to hug back.

“I’m proud of you.”

“If you make me cry at this table I’m never bringing you anywhere ever again.”

His friends laugh, and Mark gives him a final pat on the back.

“I don’t even know where to begin with all that,” JB says, fist bumping him. “We were seated all the way back with the other peasants, but I could still see the insane detail you put into those clothes.”

“I really have my assistant designers to thank,” Bambam says.

“Oh come off it,” Yugyeom rolls his eyes, and drags him into his chair. “Your hands show the worst of it.”

Mark frowns, “Did you sew over your finger again?”

“It wasn’t worth the trip to the hospital,” Bambam peels off the bandage, and Youngjae has to look away. “I just ripped it out myself.”

There’s a mortified gasp from half of them, and Jackson squabbles, “Alright okay, put it back on, I didn’t need that mental image ever.”

The waiter comes by with table waters. They order a round of red wine, and Bambam gets a martini, because hell, he deserves it.

“Have you been able to enjoy New York at all?” Jinyoung asks.

Bambam snorts, “Enjoy? I can’t wait to leave this place.”

“You don’t like it?” 

“Uh, yeah, I’d really like to get in a car and actually  _go_ somewhere.”

“You’re just saying that because you’ve been working your ass off ever since you got here,” Mark says, like he knows he’s right. “You’ll start to smell the flowers tomorrow.”

“The flowers smell like bad hotdogs,” Bambam says, and Youngjae laughs.

“When do you guys fly home?”

Yugyeom answers, “Not for a few more days.”

“Yeah,” Bambam slips a hand down over Yugyeom’s knee and squeezes, “This one is modeling for Loverboy  _and_ Chocheng tomorrow.”

“That’s fucking cool,” Jackson frowns. “How come we don’t get tickets to that?”

“Uh, because neither of us have sixty-thousand dollars just laying around.”

“Holy shit,are seats that much?”

“You do know that the price of a Met Gala table is almost 300k right?”

“I’m never joining the fashion industry,” JB says, staring dead at his menu but not reading a thing. “I’ll thank my Subway job for that.”

A waiter appears with their drinks – and they pause to give their order. When the waiter has left, Bambam says, “I keep telling you to come work for me. They’re looking for a new receptionist.”

Mark starts to laugh, “You really think  _JB_  is the first person a client should see when they walk into your building?”

“I take offense to that,” JB says. “But he’s right.”

“It can’t be too hard.  _Hello, how are you. May I have your last name? The elevator is to your right.”_

“Youngjae, you’re hired.”

He fist pumps, “Yes!”

“What Bammie  _really_ needs, is a good manager,” Yugyeom rolls his eyes. “His schedule is constantly a mess.”

“It’s really not that bad,” Bambam says.

“Just because you’re okay with two hours of sleep, doesn’t mean I am.”

“Oooh lovers quarrel,” Jackson teases. “Having a domestic?”

Yugyeom laughs, and subtly reaches over to fix the ruffled hair at the back of Bambam’s head. “I’m so proud of all his hard work. But I’m really excited to share a bed with him again.”

Bambam loves when Yugyeom touches him. Loves that it’s so natural, never out of place, and nobody ever looks twice. Like they were made to be together, and everyone knows it. He traces the inseam of Yugyeom’s thigh, and gets a gentle shoulder squeeze in return.

Mark is giving him one of those smug looks from across the table, so Bambam changes the subject, “You guys gonna’ do any sight-seeing before you go home?”

“Oh hell yes,” Jinyoung swirls his wine, and takes a graceful sip. “We’ve got two English speakers. We are  _going_ to see the Statue of Liberty.”

Mark sighs, “I’m telling you it’s not that cool.”

“And I’m telling you to shut the hell up and buy me a ferry ticket.”

Bambam laughs behind his martini, and realizes his hands have stopped shaking.

 

* * *

 

The hotel is dark and quiet when they get back. The blinds are still lifted on the window, light from the city illuminating the far corners of their room.

Bambam sighs, and slips off his jacket. He hangs it in the closet, undoes the first button on his shirt, and flops back onto the bed. The day's emotional roller-coaster has him winded, like he's gone six times through the Goliath. 

He only has a moment to breathe before Yugyeom is following him, ripping off his tie and leaning up and over to kiss him.

“I. Am. So. Proud. Of. You.” Yugyeom speaks between kisses, and Bambam hums into it, hands running up into his hair. It’s so soft despite the color, something Bambam hasn’t quite mastered. But Yugyeom kisses him  _slow,_ long and drawn out, each kiss ending so softly, he’s not quite sure where the next one begins.

It’s like Yugyeom knows. Because the stress in his shoulders starts to bleed out of him, knots that he didn’t even realize were there. Bambam breathes in, and then out, and lets it wash over him, the sturdy body on top of him, the breath against his cheek.

“Please don’t sell that jacket,” Yugyeom mumbles against his lips.

“You know I don’t have a choice in that.”

“Everything else can go,” Yugyeom says, “ _should_ go- but please.  _Please-“_ he kisses deep, tongue slicking along Bambam’s, and oh, his stomach pits out to his feet.

“I’ll-“ Bambam inhales, trying not to tug too hard on his hair. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Fuck, I love you,” Yugyeom kisses at his jaw, something wet that has Bambam already making weird noises.

“I’m going to watch the tape a thousand times,” Bambam mumbles. “Like every other tape I have of you. Damn – I’d have you on that runway.”

Yugyeom groans into his throat, and Bambam drags his hand down his back, t-shirt bending to his fingers. His brain is immediately filled with data; polyester-cotton, pressed down the side, back darts and a vent at the yolk –

Yugyeom is sitting up on his knees to discard it faster than Bambam can process. It’s chucked onto the floor, and Bambam gasps, “Yugyeom! A Tom Ford!” But Yugyeom drags out his belt with a hiss and it’s the sexiest thing Bambam has ever seen.

“Fuck the Tom Ford,” Yugyeom kisses him, and oh, Bambam traces the lines of his back, the knobs of his spine, and it’s  _good._ So warm and alive. Yugyeom speak into his ear, “I’d only wear your clothes. Forever.”

“Oh god, talk dirty to me,” Bambam says, half joking, and Yugyeom laughs, fingers working down Bambam’s shirt with a precision only known through practice. 

“I liked your bowtie today,” Yugyeom hums. “Where’d that go?”

“Somewhere,” Bambam breathes. “Kiss me.”

He does. Over and over, until Bambam is literally sweating through his trousers, and kicking them off to the side. Yugyeom slips a hand under his boxers and  _oh,_ oh oh oh,  _oh –_

“Shit,” Bambam rocks his head back into the mattress, breaking their kiss. “Oh, I would’ve blown you in that dressing room.”

“I know,” Yugyeom mumbles. “But I made a promise, didn’t I?”

Bambam jerks, “Oh!  _Fuck_ yes-“

“Get over to that window,” Yugyeom grins, and Bambam nearly scrambles to chuck off his underwear, and hobble over to the window. He’s harder than hell, and it only gets worse when Yugyeom finds lube in his suitcase and says, “Hands on the glass.”

Worth it, worth it, all of it worth it. The sweat, the tears, the lack of sleep, the month away. To see his name on that screen, and the look on Yugyeom’s face. To look down at the City of Dreams and feel slick fingers prod at his hole, warm and cold all together.

Bambam lets his forehead smack against the glass, and it fogs when he moans, Yugyeom’s hand coming up to brace his upper back.

“It’s been a while,” Yugyeom says. “So we can’t go too fast.”

One finger, slowly, and it’s complete agony.

“No no no no no – better that way, I promise. Fast is good, really good.”

“You better keep some wits about you,” Yugyeom slips in another finger, and Bambam starts to feel the stretch. “Because you’re fucking me tomorrow night.”

“Oh hell,” Bambam rolls to press his cheek against the window. “Get with it.”

Another roll of his wrist, and a third finger stretches in. Yugyeom prods deeper, and that rocketfire spark has him jerking, almost drooling into his palm when Yugyeom does it again. He moans loud. Feels Yugyeom go hard from it.

“Alright, yeah, fuck going slow,” Yugyeom rips open a condom with his teeth and Bambam almost comes on the spot. “Hope you’re not walking anywhere tomorrow.”

“You can carry me,” Bambam jokes, and moans like a whore when Yugyeom lubes up his cock and slips in like he belongs there.

They both take a moment. Bambam fuzzily looks down at the skyline and flushes. They can’t see him. The world. But some messed up part of him wishes they could.

“Oh Bammie,” Yugyeom sighs. His forehead presses into Bambam’s neck, and he totally gets off on the way Yugyeom’s voice sounds  _wrecked._ “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”

“Hopefully not,” Bambam croaks. “Have to keep you invested somehow.”

Yugyeom breathes a broken laugh, and thrusts in hard, jerking Bambam up against the cold glass, and it’s  _religiously_ good; Bambam feels himself astral project into the heavens, before he’s gripped by the hair and yanked back down to the good green Earth.

He loses himself in it. Clings to the cool press of glass and bends further, drawing Yugyeom  _deeper,_ counting every breath Yugyeom makes, every moan. They’re nothing but skin on skin, obscene noises and love at their core.

“Oh  _yes,”_ Bambam cries, “Baby,  _please.”_

Yugyeom doesn’t respond. Just finds some semblance of a rhythm, something Bambam gets lost in easy. He chokes on Yugyeom’s name, closes his eyes and sees the city behind it, like it’s tattooed there forever.

 

* * *

 

“Are you ever worried?”

“You can always assume I’m worried about everything. _”_

Yugyeom shoots him a look, and Bambam laughs, running his hand through Yugyeom’s hair, “Okay. Worried about what?”

“Getting older.”

He’s a heavy weight on Bambam’s chest, but he loves when Yugyeom snuggles up to him, solid and warm like a big bear.

Thirty isn’t too far away these days. In modeling terms, you're essentially a  _hundred._ To a designer’s world, you’re finally past the toddler stage.

Bambam hums, and plays with Yugyeom’s bangs. Twisting the strands, letting them flop back against his forehead.

“You’ll be bald in your wheelchair and I’ll still have you model my clothes.” Bambam tugs on his ear. “You  _have_ to know that.”

He feels Yugyeom’s smile before he sees it. But Yugyeom still twists up to kiss him, and Bambam excuses the elbow in his sternum.

Actually, no, “Ow.”

“You’re dreaming if you think I’m going bald first.”

“ _You’re_ dreaming if you think I’m below wearing a toupee.”

Yugyeom grins, “So you’ll get old with me?”

Bambam softens, and slides his hand over one of those broad shoulders. “Did you really think I wasn’t in this for the long run?”

Yugyeom giggles, way too high pitched and sweet for someone his size, before rolling over and pressing him into the sheets.

“You’re going bald first.”

“Oh good grief- “

 

* * *

 

 

The coat hangs permanently in the living room. Bias cut, georgette slick against the floor. 

**Author's Note:**

> yeah. got that degree now


End file.
